Fish story

I'm collecting cheap or free hobbies to enjoy in retirement. With the cottage such a big part of our lives, Noreen and I decided we needed to learn how to fish. She was actually revisiting a pastime that had been a cherished part of her childhood. Fishing with Dad was a frequent and much-loved activity.

I, on the other hand, was a city boy who had never seriously fished in his life. Piece of cake, I thought. If all those illiterate hillbillies with chaws in their cheeks are pulling 'em in, it'll be a snap for me.

We fished and fished and fished. Weeks went by. Seasons went by. We fished from our boat. We fished from our dock. We fished on the ice.

I occasionally got a nibble or even a bite, but I never landed one. I began to feel like Jeff Daniels, "The Buckless Yooper," in "Escanaba in da Moonlight." This sure is a heckuva lot harder than losing my virginity, I thought. Those hillbillies began to look a lot smarter. Scholarly, even.

I continued to read and watch YouTube videos. I watched shows on the Outdoor Channel. I read columns in Field & Stream by guys named "Buck" and "Red."

Last weekend it finally happened. Noreen and I were sitting in our boat in "The Narrows" on our lake and I felt a tug on my line. It was a good sized smallmouth bass. He pulled. I pulled. I eventually lifted him into the boat. Hurray! I'm glad that's over with. I gently removed the hook, lowered him into the water, swished him around until he wiggled and then watched him swim away. I had long resolved to put back the first fish as an offering to the fish gods and it was easy to keep that vow because, at 12-inches, he wasn't a keeper.

Noreen has often said to me that her father enjoyed fishing whether he was catching them or not. He was a wise man. That's been true for me, too.

But it still felt good to finally catch one!